


A Heart In Barcelona

by titasjournal



Category: Harrison Ford - Fandom, Star Wars RPF, carrie fisher - Fandom, carrie fisher/harrison ford - Fandom, carrison - Fandom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-09 21:12:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11677173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titasjournal/pseuds/titasjournal
Summary: Carrie and Harrison go on a weekend getaway to Barcelona during filming of The Empire Strikes Back in the late seventies. Something happens on that trip that changes their lives forever.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a couple of things I'd like you to know before you start: if rpf is not your thing, just click off this fic; I did take some creative liberty on what concerns the timeline, so stuff that is mentioned/places they visit may not have existed in the seventies, I apologize in advance; I do use/paraphrase some parts from Carrie's books, as a way of making it feel more like them. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy and don't forget to tell me your opinion, either here or on my tumblr: titasjournal.tumblr.com .

“Come with me this weekend,” Carrie says. “Out of the country.”

It’s Friday and Carrie and Harrison are making out in a prop closet, away from the prying eyes of fellow cast and crew. It’s been a long, tension-filled week. This had been the week of filming their first on-screen kiss on the _Falcon_. Even though they’d done it countless times before, in the safety of their cocoon, it had been beyond nerve-racking to do it in front of everyone on set.

Carrie awaits his response patiently, her back against a shelf of plastic blasters. “Carrie, we can’t just _go_.”

“Why not? We’ll just catch a train and go somewhere in Europe.” She insists, clutching his arm.

“Yeah, but,” a broken lightsaber falls against his back, and he shoves it aside. “People will notice we’re missing.”

“We’ll be gone for just two nights.” She sands on her tiptoes. “A lot can happen in two nights, it’ll be easy to explain.” Her lips stick to his momentarily before he whispers:

“I want to go, so badly.” She smiles widely. “But I can’t.” her smiles fades.

“Come on. Let’s go somewhere where we won’ have to hide between droids.”

“I do hate this closet.” He mumbles absentmindedly.

“Well, let’s go then!” she jumps from one foot to the other, impatient to get out of there and get on a train.

“It’s too risky, Carrie.” He pauses. “Isn’t it?” he cocks one eyebrow.

“No, you see. Because here’s what we’d do: we’d catch a train in a couple of hours, arrive at night and walk around, find a hotel in the center, and then catch a train back on Sunday afternoon.”

“And… how many times have you done this?” she shrugs.

“A couple. Never been caught, too.” She winks at him convincingly.

“Never.” He echoes, pondering her plan for a few seconds.

“We’ll just have to tell someone about our plan, to safeguard it. Someone who’ll notice we’re gone.” She explains.

“Mark?” It’s the first person that comes to mind.

“We can’t tell him. He’ll blab about it.” She answers swiftly. “I love him to death, but we can’t tell him.”

“Who, then?” Harrison questions.

“Anthony will keep our secret, I think.” She tries.

“Yeah, okay. Anthony will have to do.”

She bites her lower lip: “Where would you go?” she asks. “Name a place that you’ve never been before.”

“Barcelona.” Carrie’s surprised at how fast Harrison answers.

“Why?”

“For starters, it’s not a fridge like London.” He chuckles. “And I hear the architecture is beautiful.”

“Gaudí?” she guesses. Of course, Carrie knows about Antoni Gaudí, the Modernista revered by artists of all kinds.

“I saw his work in a _National Geographic._ It looked almost magical. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” It is incredible to hear Mr. Ford call anything _magical_. Some people might’ve felt the need to justify themselves for being too touristy or even a little bit stupid, but not Harrison. He was unapologetically himself in everything he did.

“It’s perfect.” She smiles tenderly, something she found happened less and less as their months of filming came to an end.

 

Their train is already speeding through France, en route to Paris, where they’ll catch a second train to warm and sunny Barcelona. The car is nearly empty, and they’ve selected a pair of seats with a table. Harrison sits beside the window, as he needs the light to read. His eyes are fixated on the pages, reading every word carefully, as if someone will quiz him later about it.

Carrie, whose head had been previously resting on his lap, gets up and sits in front of him, fishing her journal and scribbling about the past week on a blank page. Her foot rubs gently against his. He doesn’t rub back. Carrie’s always imagined that the best relationships are those that are as happy and content in silence as they are in action. It seemed to her that, since Harrison was ninety per cent of the time empirically silent, they were only happy in action, and that bothered her from time to time, more than she liked to admit.

She sinks deeper into her seat and he fidgets in his. He places his book in a more comfortable manner, allowing Carrie to see its title.

“That again?” she asks.

“Excuse me?” he raises his eyes to hers and cocks one eyebrow.

“The book?” she sheepishly points at it. It has a familiar title, she could swear he’s read it before.

“What about it?” he asks, uninterested.

“You’ve read it before.” She sates, and he doesn’t react. “Haven’t you?”

He puts the book down, tired of fighting back. “Yes.” He looks at her. “Yes, I have.”

“Do you do that a lot?” she asks, curious. “Reread books, I mean.”

“Sometimes.” He starts. “There is always something I missed the first time around.” He explains.

“I suppose…” she ponders it. “But don’t you feel stuck, reading the same story over and over again?”

“It feels different to me every time.” The sentence hangs in the air.

“How so?” she presses, after a few seconds.

“Well, for one, the situation that I read the book in isn’t the same, even without me trying to change it.” He crosses his arms and leans back on the velvet seat.

“Your situation?” she knows what he means, but him talking to her this openly is so rare she doesn’t want to lose the momentum.

“Yeah, you know, my life.” He smiles crookedly. “The first time I read this book, I was in college and single. The next time, I was already married to Mary and had my first boy. Now I’m reading it again, and I don’t have to explain what’s changed, do I?” he chuckles, running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, now you’ve been kidnapped by a woman fifteen years your junior on her way to Spain.” Her voice breaks slightly: the age difference is still very prominent, whether she likes it or not.

“But yes, it feels like reading a different book. I look for things and find sentences that I hadn’t really paid attention to the other times.”

“I guess I haven’t lived nearly as much as you have to experience that.” She shrugs and opens the window slightly.

“You’re joking, kid?” he takes a cigarette from his jeans’ pocket and lights it. “Your life is one for the ages.”

“Mine?” her tone is somewhat shocked. “If you consider having a crazy family and a drug problem living, then yes.” He takes a drag from his Marlboro and snickers.

“Don’t underestimate yourself.” She leans into him, propping her elbows on the table. Her hand reaches for his cigarette as he blows the smoke out the window.

“The only time I felt alive was during my time studying in London.” She admits.

“Yeah? Why is that?” he removes his glasses and sets them on the table.

“I guess because, for the first time, I was away from home. Away from my mother.” Outside, trees and animals make up the view as they breeze through the French countryside. “No one cared who I was for the first time.” She finishes.

“If it helps in any way, _I_ don’t care who you are.” He finishes the worn-out Marlboro and flicks it onto the ashtray.

“That’s easy.” She falls back onto her seat and smooths her long, burgundy dress. Her hair hides in a ponytail on the nape of her neck. Her small, gold hoops shimmer in the afternoon light.

“Carrie?” he asks.

“How can I be someone if I haven’t lived?” she rests her head on the window and the buzz from the train tracks echo in her head.

“How deep of you, kid.” He jokes, but gets no smile in return.

“Harrison, I’m twenty two years old and I don’t love, I don’t do anything right for me.” She exhales. She’s probably getting too depressive for Harrison, a side of her he’s hardly experienced in the past years they’ve known each other. She’s made sure to keep _that_ to herself.

“The person you truly are isn’t who you are now.” He says, seriously. “You’re who time allows you to be.”

She laughs: “Who taught you that, Mr. Ford?”

“No one.” He shrugs. “It’s just something I’ve realized over the years.”

“Elaborate, professor.” She gets up and slides in beside him.

“Well, if you think about it, why do you live? What’s the whole point of this?” she lays her head on his shoulder soundlessly, absorbing all of his words. “You live, you do everything with the intention of accomplishing your goals. In favor of using up all your possibilities until they run out.” He tells her. “And you wanna know the good part about it?” he asks.

She nods and mumbles a tired _yes._

“Even if you feel like you’ve accomplished nothing of what you wanted, you still lived your life for that.” He smiles, knowing that she was drifting off to sleep. “You had fun living.”

 

 A few hours later, they exit the Barcelona Sants railway station. The neighborhood is urban and somewhat grubby, unexpectedly. Harrison hails a cab and Carrie tells the cabbie in Spanish to take them to the Gothic Quarter. The trip there is tranquil, both of them absorbed in the diverse architecture and the warm colors that are splashed throughout the city.

“So, you speak Spanish?” Harrison points an accusing finger at his travel companion.

“Spanish, _sí_. Catalan, no.” Catalan is the native language of Barcelona, though both are spoken here.

“Color me intrigued, Fisher.” He teases. “So, how do I say _Carrie, give me a foot rub_ in Spanish?”

“And he’s funny too, ladies and gentleman!” Carrie laughs and smacks his arm playfully.

They step out onto the stone street and walk up it, trying to find a place to crash for the two nights. They eventually find a nice hotel and leave their bags on the bed.

“Let’s grab something to eat, I’m starving.” Harrison proposes, but Carrie’s already out the door, dreaming about the famous _tapas_.

Carrie and Harrison walk a while until they reach _Las Ramblas_. There, they’re greeted by the hustle and bustle of Barcelona. The heat from the amount of people filling the street is almost unbearable. Trying not to get lost between the natives and tourists alike, Harrison grasps Carrie’s hand, and a comfortable atmosphere sets between them. Holding hands seems such a step backwards for them, since the pair has had a much more advanced relationship for the past few years. However, the gesture shows a level of intimacy they’ve been lacking for a while.

Carrie wishes friends held hands more often, like the kids she sees on the streets sometimes. She doesn’t understand why people have to grow up and get embarrassed about it. Yet…, is that what they are? Friends? Lovers? Co-workers who, sometimes, have sleepovers?

Had someone asked that question to her three years ago, when all of this had begun, she’d responded _lovers_. And inside, deep inside, she loved him utterly. After a few years, she could certainly give herself the benefit of the doubt and pass that love as a nineteen year old’s infatuation by the impossibly handsome movie star.

Harrison awakes her from her reverie: “You wanna eat here?” he points to an outdoors café and Carrie spots a chorizo sandwich.

“Yeah.” They sit down in front of each other and their hands part ways. Hers feels achingly empty for a while.

The waiter brings the food, the drinks, the check. The whole dinner is a blur of lights, delicious food and latin music. And all the while, her eyes never left Harrison.

He is like a fantasy. The inevitability of his escape is most likely his most attractive feature. He submits to the silences without a struggle; Carrie goes under shrugging and sighing, finally overcome by the sheer weight of the pause-turned-lull-turned-way-of-life. Silence speaks louder than words – it screams “BORING!”. He’s boring and tries to make it look more like a decision than an accident. The silences make her composure decompose from the inside out.

She wonders what he’s like inside out.

“Darling,” they are hanging out on a gothic patio right beside the Cathedral of Barcelona. She gets up and sits on his lap, encasing his face on her hands. Her eyes don’t leave his, and neither do his. His hand travels to the small of her back, bringing her closer to his chest. Her butt falls on the sharp cold stone of the patio and her legs wrap around his torso. She giggles as she tries to find a comfortable position around his body. Down in the streets, a man still awake plays the guitar in the hot hot hot Barcelona night. The song feels just right.

She puts her open lips on his and lets them close slowly, savoring the moment. They feel designed exactly for each other, it’s incredible. His hands tangle in her sweat-soaked hair as she nibbles on his neck, his moaning escaping his lips and flying into her body. Her dress rides up and his hand gets lost in her legs, her thighs.

“If you stop kissing me,” she pants. “I’ll _die._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

Their cabbie pulls over on Passeig de Grácia, a large thoroughfare where every shop is inscribed with an expensive name: Dolce & Gabbana, Yves Saint Laurent. Yet, amidst this luxury, shines an actual gem: Casa Milà, or as it is commonly called, _La Pedrera_.

Carrie and Harrison dash below an awning and squint through the blinding sunlight, across the intersection, at its interesting stone facade.

“Did you know,” Carrie reads from her very informative brochure: “That a wealthy man called Milà commissioned Gaudí to design the building?” she explains.

“It’s beautiful.” He exhales, in awe.

“Your first Gaudí!” she exclaims, excitedly. She clutches his arm like a proud girlfriend: “How do you feel?”

“Like I said,” he repeats, still fixated on the frontage. “It’s unbelievable.”

Its grandiose structure is made up entirely of waves and curves, there not being a single straight line of construction. It was the home of the Milà family, as well as several other renters, but most of the locals despised it as eyesore – exactly how the same generation of Parisians felt about the Eiffel Tower.

“I wonder how it would’ve felt back then,” Carrie confesses. “I’d like to think I would’ve been one of those people who understood this was special.”

“You have an eye for special things, kid,” he states, matter-of-factly. He probably didn’t even think twice about his comment, he just said it. Like most of the things he does, he does them very true to his character, without thinking twice whether they’re hurtful or meaningful. This time around, Carrie cautiously rejoiced in his words. She knew there was a possibility that he just blurted it out without feeling it, but nonetheless, she’d record those words in her mind.

“Nice roof,” Harrison says. “But mine in London is better.” He waggles his eyebrows at her. She nudges him, and he nudges back.

_La Pedrera_ ’s rooftop is notorious for its weird, bulky chimneys: some shaped like medieval armory, others imitating soft-served ice-cream. The waves of tourists go up and down the Escher-esque stairs, around the chimneys again and again, like an endless ocean of dissimilar people.

“Harrison, stand right there,” she orders, hurriedly.

“Here?” he motions to the empty space in between tourists and chimneys.

“Yeah,” she pulls out her disposable camera and swiftly snaps a shot. “Smile for me, baby,” the pet name escapes her mouth without a warning. Thank God for the camera hiding her face. He obliges, surprisingly, and she takes the picture. “Perfect.”

“Let’s go?” he rushes, noticing of the amount of people surrounding them.

“Yeah, you wanna visit the other house?” she offers.

“Aham,” he’s already descending the stairs, a strange mixture of nervousness and fear.

“Harrison, wait for me!” She shouts, without being able to keep up with him.

She reaches the bottom and he’s waiting for her amongst the trees.

“What was that?” she asks, partially annoyed.

“What was what?” he asks back, impassive.

“ _That_! Up there! That whole scene! _”_ she’s still rather out of breath, trying to keep up with his fast pacing.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He’s already half-way into the subway station. She notices its name in yellow: _Metro_ , oh-so-different from its brother in London.

“You’re infuriating sometimes.” She presses, taming her disheveled hair.

“Same could be said about you, dear.” His back is still turned to her while they await the _metro_ that’ll be taking them to _Casa Batlló._

“What is that supposed to mean?” her tiny frame manages to jump up to his shoulders, grabbing his attention.

“Carrie, stop.” He warns, his tone somber. His eyes still don’t look at hers.

“No,” she jumps again, this time grabbing a hold of his shoulders, making him tumble backwards.

“Stop, I mean it.” This time, his face is turned towards her. It’s dark and… _wet_? She doesn’t remember hearing his voice breaking from crying, nor does she remember to actually see him cry. She always imagined a specimen like Harrison Ford was not capable of any emotion, much less sadness. If any, he’d be able to feel empathy or lust, but not _sadness._ A form of male animal like him feeling anything other than that was scary. She chose him because he was safe, because she was s _ure_ he couldn’t feel. Then, a frightening thought came to mind:

Carrie couldn’t help but wonder, if Harrison cried so easily like this, though she still didn’t know why, then… could he feel other inane things like _love?_

“You wanna see something cool?” he pokes her chest.

“I’m looking at it.” She teases, biting her lip. It takes all of his strength not to start making out with Carrie in the middle of the crowded street.

“Shut up,” he laughs. “Turn around for me, dear.”

They’re standing across the street from _Casa Batlló,_ another Gaudí masterpiece. The surface is covered in ceramic-shard mosaics – aqua and cobalt, rusty orange and yellow gold – in rough, skinlike patterns. As if that wasn’t enough, the rooftop is another force to be reckoned with, with an animalistic arch of metallic tiles that’s curved like the back of a mighty dragon.

“I like this one even more, huh?” she says. His eyes widen with speechlessness.

“This one is more you,” Harrison tries. “It’s the bright colors, I think.” He smiles his signature crooked smile.

“Look at us, we look like we’re shopping for houses together.” She jokes, bumping his side. He doesn’t laugh, though. In fact, he doesn’t react at all.

“Next?” he asks, glancing at the watch on his wrist. It’s a little bit past one in the afternoon.

“Should we eat?” the scalding sun feels like it must burn through her pale skin.

“If that’s what you want.” His tone is monochroic, yet he smiles momentarily.

They hop on a bus en route to the Gothic Quarter, in hopes of freshening up and eating a late lunch at the market. Carrie switches to a baggy shirt and a flowy, thin skirt. Changing was practically a requirement with such unbearable heat.   

“That’s the one!” she exclaims as they turn left at _Las Ramblas_ and enter a huge agglomerate of people. The scent of fresh food and organic produce fills the air. Harrison immediately gravitates towards the charcuterie section, promptly getting a chorizo sandwich. Carrie follows suit. The two actors sit down on the sidewalk outside the _La Boqueria_ market and eat in silence. After a while, Carrie asks: “Where should we go next?” impatient to cut through the awkward atmosphere that was threatening to set.

“The guy at the front desk gave me this,” he hands her the map of Barcelona, with the major tourists’ spots circled. “While you were changing, he showed me that.” He explains, succinctly.

“ _Sagrada Família?”_ Carrie tries. It sure is famous.

“I was thinking more of _Parc Güell_.”

And off they go.

As soon as they enter the subway for a very long trip to the edge of Barcelona, it’s quite evident that, with the number of tourists in the same situation as them, there is sure to not be a seat for them to rest their feet for a while. They hold on to the railing for a few stops, chatting sparingly. Then, someone gets off the subway and Carrie nudges him. Then, she sprints as effectively as one can sprint inside a crowded subway and snatches the seat. He laughs.

“You’ll never be as fast as Princess Leia!” she shouts, annoying the people around them with their childish antics.

“What was that? I’ll never be as fat as Princess Leia?” he jokes, winking at her.

She melts.

“Shut up.” She retorts with a shaky voice. Then, she says. “Your feet must be killing you.”

“They’re fine, Carrie.” He responds.

“No, sit here.” She gets up to offer him the seat.

“You’re crazy, sit down.” He insists.

“Harrison,” her tone is harsh even. “Sit down.” He obliges, how could he not?

“We’ll share it, then.” He moves to the side and gives her a tiny portion of the seat.

“Okay.” She answers, giggling. This had been her plan all along.

She sits down next to him: “I’m falling, Harrison.” Someone beside them laughs.

“Just sit back a little.” And she does. She sits further back until she’s blatantly sitting on his lap. He doesn’t seem to mind as his arms wrap around her waist and his head burrows on the crook of her neck. She lets her head fall back, settling on his shoulder, until they’re a mesh of limbs on a public transportation. The vibration of the tracks lulls them to a blissful state of reverie. Even if she tried, she realized, she just couldn’t get him out of her head.

 

They emerge into a neighborhood that’s emptier and dirtier. No one exits the station with them, and there are no street signs for their destination.

“Is this the right place?” she asks.

Harrison scratches his head. “I think so. Let’s try up there, sweetheart.”

He points towards an area that looks less barren. They hike up the streets, their hands brushing as they go. Everything feels abandoned as they reach a long hill with several sets of stairs and escalators. _Escalators._ Carrie’s never been happier to see escalators in her life.

As they ride the rickety steps, the sun gets brighter and brighter. When they reach the top of the hill, worn out and sweaty, the sky clears. Pleasant sunshine.

There’s another, smaller hill across the street. “The park?” she asks. He nods, encouragingly.

Then, with a burst of energy, Harrison scoops her up over his shoulder and runs towards it. Carrie screams with laughter. He shouts in mad glee. She pounds his back with her fists, yet Harrison doesn’t show signs of letting go. Only when they’ve gone through the gates and are on the summit does he let her down. He throws up his arms in triumph: “Now who’s the strongest, sweetheart?” he snickers. Then, he buckles like a weak hinge. “I’m dying.”

Carrie grins. “Serves you right.”

Harrison lifts his head. “You think so, baby?” And then she sees his expression change as he notices what lies behind Carrie. She turns to look. Their bodies straighten in amazement.

They’re not on just on top of the final hill. They’re on top of Barcelona.

 

In the far distance, they can see the turrets and sculptures that Gaudí designed for the park – and its accompanying crowds – but, up here, everything is trees and serenity. A landscape of Mediterranean greens sprawls across to the horizon, with sprinkles of yellow, pink and blue tiles throughout – _Parc Güell._

“Come and sit here,” she motions to a secluded area, off path. Suddenly, her heart beats faster.

The air smells of mountains and pines. There is a crazy number of trees here: cypress trees, olive trees, palm trees and just mystery trees with plump red berries.

 Their bodies clash on the ground. They sneak through the foliage. She leans in and their lips meet, her body on top of his. He unbuttons her shirt, and his hands are around her back, caressing her smooth skin. But as quickly as their making out begins, he pulls away, gasping.

“Never mind, we can’t do this. If we go any further, the stopping part will be excruciating.” He looks at her through his eyelashes. “It already is.”

“You wanna go back to the hotel?” she reaches out to touch him, but he rolls away.

“Don’t you want to see the park?” he questions.

“We can come back later.” She proposes.

“And climb all of that again?” he grins.

“You’re right, Mr. Ford.” She says.

They sit in silence for a few moments, immovable.

Then, the sun dips below the treeline, and suddenly, Harrison is backlit by a stunning golden light. He looks so dashing even when he’s sweaty and dirty. She wiggles upward until she reaches his lips. They kiss, heavily, until Carrie can’t handle it anymore.

“Take that off.” She tugs at his shirt and he, surprisingly, indulges.

Now, a woman is playing the guitar, strumming the strings beautifully. The famous lizard is directly below them, they have the perfect view to look at it. The _entirety_ of Barcelona in all its glory is given to them in a silver platter.

Yet, the only thing they can focus on is each other.

Her hands tentatively touch his abdomen, feeling every bump, every curve, almost like he’s _La Pedrera_ himself. Her nails graze his scruff, her lips enveloping his skin in a leisurely manner. Why bother? They have the city to themselves.

His fingers get lost on her brown locks and his hazel eyes latch on to hers. His plump lips explore her chest, the soft, sensitive skin of her breasts. Her heavy breathing propels them to a more serious, less teasing, kiss. Their lips meet in a fusion of passion and desperation, their bodies never being close enough. The grass beneath his skin tickles and the sun on her bare back burns, but all that truly matters is her skin on his mouth and her hands on his neck.

“I didn’t bring any, Carrie,” he manages to breathe. “They’re all at the hotel.”

“What?” she murmurs, while she licks his earlobe, teasingly. “How could you not have brought any?”

“Well, this wasn’t exactly on the tour guide.” He chuckles at his own remark. She doesn’t stop though, which alarms him.

“Carrie, are you on the pill?” he asks, praying to God that her answer is affirmative.

She nods. And the heavens explode.

 


	3. Chapter 3

You’d think that an afternoon of such intimacy and years of accumulated tension would be enough for them to keep their hands on each other. Instead, as they make their way to the _España Square_ , Carrie’s eyes rarely meet Harrison’s. Truth be told, it just dawned on the two actors that they rarely had this much time alone as is, and they don’t quite know how to deal with it.

Soon enough, if they weren’t careful, Harrison would start to get annoyed at Carrie’s mood swings and, in turn, she’d begin to resent him for his frustratingly unconcerned demeanor.

They walk side by side, though miles apart psychologically, until they reach it. The square is momentous in itself, it’s huge fountains dominating most of the space. Up above, almost sky high, they could observe the _Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya_ , an enormous classical edifice, much too different from Gaudí’s architecture.

Harrison glances at his wrist watch and mumbles: “Maybe we should get something to eat.” She nods.

They walk up the steps ( _more steps, ugh)_ until they’re by the bigger, more crowded fountain. Carrie spots some street food and urges Harrison, with little to no words, to follow her lead. They pay for some delicious, though unreasonably priced, meaty sandwiches.

“You wanna sit there?” Harrison’s questions, uninterested.

She does. She sits down on the grass, right in front of the fountain. He sits next to her with some difficulty, for the area’s overflowing with tourists and natives alike.

“Harrison,” she says, but it’s barely audible. She tries again, this time turning her face towards his. “Harrison.”

He continues eating, but nods.

“What was that earlier?” she asks. He keeps chewing, but it’s not a way to divert the attention from the conversation. He doesn’t try to deny it or change the topic. Instead, he says:

“That thing was jam-packed.” He takes another bite. “I couldn’t breathe up there.” On top of the rooftop of _La Pedrera._

“Why didn’t you say somethin’?” she chews on the straw of her drink absentmindedly.

“Didn’t want to worry ya, kid.” His eyes focus on the still dormant fountain instead of on hers.

“Bullshit.” She sets the cup down in front of her and brings a hand to his face, turning it towards her.

“What?” he’s shocked by how quickly her tone turned aggressive.

“You heard me.” She repeats, her hand falling to her lap. “You weren’t trying to be selfless.”

“Then what was I doing?” his tone is dangerous.

“Can’t crack that up yet.” She ponders it for a few moments.

“I have that problem sometimes.” He confesses. “When things aren’t the way I want them to.” He finishes his sandwich and puts away the wrapper in his backpack.

“When things aren’t the way you want them to be…” she echoes. He’s unbelievable.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.” People start cheering, but they remain absorbed in their conversation.

“Afraid?” she runs her hands through her hair and successfully makes a ponytail.

He keeps quiet.

“That’s it, right?” she smiles, pleased. “You didn’t want me to see you scared?” the fountain rises and water starts splashing around in various colors. “You didn’t want me to think you’re what? Human?” she presses. His eyes reflect the pinks and blues and yellows. “Tell you a secret, I don’t. Never have.” That’s a lie, a big one. Big movie star, Harrison Ford, fearless and manly as can be. That was her mindset and, frankly, it was scary to think otherwise.

He turns around, effectively shutting her up. His mouth clashes onto hers, his tongue slipping inside her, demanding and expecting nothing but her very best. She obliges, of course. The music in the square is nearly deafening, but it doesn’t throw her off. Her hand grips the hair on the back of his head, tugging him closer and closer. Their lips slide on each other until he’s breathless. As they part, she sits back up in her place, their skin barely touching.

Then, softer:

“You kiss like a poet.” The words barely reach her.

“Kissed a lot of poets in your life to know how they go about it, Harrison?” she laughs it off, uncomfortable.

“You know what I mean.” He says, their eyes never meeting.

She does. Because every time he looks at her, suddenly flowers grow in her chest.  

 

The morning sunlight accompanies them on their way to _La Sagrada Família._ The map easily leads them to the closest transit station. The _metro_ takes them directly to the cathedral, as they exit the station. And then they see it, through the waves of tourists and countless bright green trees. _La Pedrera_ and _Casa Batlló_ may be Gaudí masterpieces, but _Sagrada Família_?

It’s a monster.

Its height is unfathomable and the exquisite sculpture work on the facades is unbelievable. Portraits of Christ’s life cover the entirety of its outside and its shape is eerily reminiscent of sandcastles on the beach. It looks like a fantasyland castle – wet sand dripped through fingers, both sharp and soft.

Carrie and Harrison circle the entire structure, taking in the seemingly unorganized order of the figures carved into every inch of the front. So much is happening, everywhere, that the overall style defies categorization. The west side is austere and tormented, drawing their attention to an emaciated Jesus on an iron cross. Stone women wail beside a pile of skulls at his feet. However, the east side is an abundance of life – humans and angels and animals and wheat – and topped by a green tree covered in white doves. Carrie inhales at its beauty, and they’ve only seen the outside.

As they enter the cathedral, they’re aware of an absence of noise. Organic figures intertwine with colorful and intricate stained-glass windows. On the right side, windows dyed with blues and greens and purples bid goodbye to the sun, whereas on the left side, where the sun rises every morning, warm colors like oranges and yellows welcome it.

“Fuck, this is beautiful.” Harrison whispers, only to Carrie. She nods.

And then, an overwhelming _need_ to pick up her notebook pops up. An entire storyline occurs and she wants desperately to write it down. She tugs on Harrison’s shirt’s sleeve and he looks down at her: “Harrison,”

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” they keep walking through the columns.

“I want to write.” Her voice is tight.

“What, now?” his eyebrow creases.

“Please,” she tugs harder, more urgent.

“Okay, okay.” He looks around. “Sit down there, huh?” he points to one of the columns farther to the left.

She walks towards it, slumps on the ground and leans against the warm stone, hot from the sun rays. She fumbles inside her bag, fishing out her little grey notebook and a black ink pen. Words flow out of her and onto the paper, energy turning into energy. Harrison observes curiously, taking note of the way her lip curves when she’s thinking of what to write next, the way her teeth bite into it when she knows she’s got a good idea. Her back is curved over her ink-stained hands and the yellowed-out pages.

It’s a mesmerizing sight, even amongst all of Gaudí’s beauty.

A while later, her head rises and she smiles. His body, _his soul_ , fills with the most pleasant adrenaline he’s ever felt. The sight of her proud smile imprints a crescent moon on his lip, and the desire of capturing this moment and savoring it for more than these mere seconds is overpowering. He sneaks out his camera and snaps the swiftest shot he’s ever taken, her lips and sparkling eyes forever inside his jeans’ pocket.

 _I wish the world would swallow us whole, in this moment. This, it hits me, feels like falling in love_.

 

The afternoon train is already speeding out of Spain and it’s warm-colored buildings, en route to reality, also known as grey old London.

“When are you gonna show me one of those things you write?” Harrison mumbles.

“What?” Carrie’s eyes are cloudy from tiredness.

“Will you ever show me?” his eyes are the smallest hint of hopeful.

“Someday, Harrison,” she responds. “Someday.” She smiles, though not very convincingly.

“What is it exactly that you write?” he thought of letting go of the subject, but he’s too invested now to stop.

“Whatever I feel like.” She replies. It doesn’t seem enough to satisfy him. “Sometimes, it’s journals. Others, poetry. Rarely prose, though I do have a million ideas for it.” She laughs, suddenly nervous for having his undivided attention.

“Interesting,” he looks at her like he’s studying her. It’s intimidating. “Very different writing styles, then.” She nods. “Does it feel different?”

She lets her hair loose from the pony tail and it falls down onto her shoulders. “When I write a diary, I do it to listen to myself, not to communicate.” He nods in understanding, inciting her to continue. “It’s sort of like I’m cloning myself in an effort to try to understand myself.” She chuckles. “Just trying to get to the edge of my personality.”

“And poetry?” her gets up and makes his way across the table, sitting down beside her. As if this conversation couldn’t get any more daunting.

“Oh, poetry is a lousy lousy way of communicating.” She explains. “But such a great way to find yourself.” His lip curves upward in the most endearing smirk.

“So, your words mirror _you_.” He tries. When she doesn’t react, he bites his bottom lip in anticipation. She melts a little bit inside.

“My words _burn_.”

If only he knew every hurtful, confused, venomous words she’s written about him.

“It’s ironic how artistic we become when our hearts are broken.” As she says this, she realizes how truly powerful her words are, because it looks as though his face shut down. His eyes look glassy and dark, his facial features very harsh, as though they were hand-painted with coal. She almost regrets them. Almost.

“All art comes down to love and heartbreak, isn’t that so?” she’s enjoying the effect she has on him. He _must_ understand. Her smile is wicked.

He plunges into her, dives into her, _drowns._ His lips are hers, his bottom lip trapped in between his. Her hands on his soft, brown hair, pulling him closer, as close as she pleases. In her waist, she feels his fingers digging perfect oval holes on her skin. His slight stubble rubs against her sun-kissed skin and it feels nothing short of exciting. These days, it feels like he only kisses her to shut her up.

As the train breezes through the French countryside, Carrie and Harrison kiss. The kiss doesn’t quite feel the same, though. Her air leaves her body and enters his, enters her spirit, enters her _life._


	4. Chapter 4

“You go in first?” Harrison asks, fidgety. “I go in first?”

 

“You can go first, I’ll just say I slept in too late.” Carrie answers, brushing his hair from his forehead.

 

Their first day back on set in London after their weekend getaway in Barcelona is about to begin, and Harrison seems uncharacteristically… _nervous_.

 

“No one is gonna know.” She promises with one quick peck on the lips before she sends him out the door, to the studio.

 

About thirty minutes later, Carrie walks onto the Pinewood Studios’ premises, heading for the makeup trailer. A couple of crew members nod in her direction and she smiles in return. On her way to get her crown braid assembled, she walks by Mark’s trailer and decides to knock.

 

“Hey, Marky Mark!” she shouts. He paces towards Carrie and envelops her in a tight hug.

 

“Carrie,” he says, as she returns the hug. “I almost thought you weren’t coming today.” He breaks away from her and turns back around, heading out of the trailer.

 

She follows him out: “What do you mean?” she questions, walking quickly, trying to catch up to his pace. “Why wouldn’t I come in today?”

 

“Carrie, there you are!” Martha, Carrie’s designated hair stylist, calls out.

 

Carrie is pushed into the trailer, waving a half-goodbye to Mark as he disappears in between ships and blasters.

 

As she sits down on the chair, Martha cleans out the table somewhat, a doughnut wrapper, a water bottle and a coffee-stained newspaper being thrown to the trash.

 

“How was your weekend, luv?” Martha’s inquires, curious, in her thick British accent.

 

“Calm,” Carrie answers. “They were a calm couple of days.”

 

“I see,” she mumbles, as she pulls and pins her long locks. “Slept a lot, did ya?” she snickers.

 

“Hum, sure.” An uncomfortable silence sets between the two women.

“How was your weekend?” Carrie asks, a good twenty minutes later.

 

“What, luv?” Martha’s brow furrows.

 

“You were asking me about my weekend,” Carrie says. “And I just asked you about yours.”

 

“Oh, it was fine, luv,” the braid is almost complete, as is her simplistic makeup. “Nothin’ interesting in my life.” She smiles, a sincere, sweet smile.

 

“Carrie Fisher, on set in ten minutes.” A crew member shouts outside the trailer.

 

“Duty calls!” Carrie laughs, yet it’s an edgy, uncomfortable laugh. All this talk about her weekend got her worried. Nothing to be worried about, though. No one knows.

 

She hops off the trailer and walks towards the Millenium Falcon. Harrison is already sitting outside it, script in hand.

 

“Hey lover,” she whispers, flirtatiously.

 

“Hey,” he smirks and gets back to his lines.

 

“So,” she starts, sitting down beside him. “Didn’t do the homework, I see.” She laughs, nudging his shoulder.

 

“Had my hands tied up this weekend,” he teases, though he doesn’t stop studying his lines. Behind them, a couple of sparks laugh, and one of them is clearly looking in their direction.

 

“What’s their problem?” Carrie asks, squeezing Harrison’s arm. He shakes his head and says:

 

“Just ignore them.” And she nods, smiling.

 

“Harry! I need to talk to you, man!” Mark calls from a distance. Then he registers Carrie’s petite frame right next to Harrison and his eyes widen. “Carrison.” He smiles half-heartedly.

 

“Sure, what do you need?” Harrison gets up and sets his scrip on the seat.

 

“Come here for a second, would you?” Mark requests.

 

“You boys have secrets now?” Carrie pouts and feigns hurt.

 

“Of course not,” Mark assures her, though not very successfully. “I still need Harrison for a second.”

 

They walk off stage and Carrie follows them slowly, sneakily, making sure they wouldn’t see her. They enter Mark’s trailer and she hides behind a prop door. Then, knowing they’re already inside, she glues her ears to the trailer’s door:

 

“It’s not serious, man.” Harrison says, his tone chill as always.

 

“What do you mean ‘it’s not serious’?” she hears Mark’s voice more clearly. “You better have a great publicist.” _Why_ _would he need a publicist?_

 

“I’ll work this out.” Harrison promises. “Until then, not a word of this to the kid.”

 

“She’s gonna find out eventually, Harry.” Mark’s voice is hoarse. “It’s on the cover of every newspaper, you better work fast.”

 

Carrie’s head is spinning uncontrollably, both her hands cradling her face, trying to cool it down.

 

_Newspaper? What is on the front of the goddamned newspaper?_

 

She rushes to the makeup trailer and looks for it frantically, she remembers seeing the yellowed-out paper and black ink earlier that morning. Then, she looks down, to the trash. _There it is_.

 

She opens it up and smooths out the crumpled paper. There it is. A somewhat far-away picture of Carrie and Harrison kissing on the steps of _La Sagrada Família._

 

“Thank God it wasn’t in the park.” She mumbles to herself.

Even though the picture is a bit blurry, it’s clear that it’s both of them kissing.

 

She cannot believe it. She thought that if this were to happen like this, it would’ve happened a long time ago. The headline read, in big, bold letters: “ _Real life Princess Leia and Han Solo reveal their love affair in Spain_ ”

 

She stomps back to Mark’s trailer and knocks, panicky. No one answers. She tries Harrison’s trailer, but he’s not there either. She ventures to the Millenium Falcon. There he is.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” she practically screams at him, but a warning hand on her shoulder calms her down.

 

“I’ll deal with it.” He says, sternly.

 

“Even you can’t make a picture disappear, Harrison!”

 

“Hey, sit down, come on.” He directs her to a chair and she obliges.

 

“Paul is never gonna talk to me again,” Carrie mutters to herself, on the verge of tears.

 

“Wait, what?” Harrison questions, but he never ends up getting an answer. Because, as he asks her this, she throws up her breakfast on the steps of the Millenium Falcon.

 

 

 

“You good to shoot, kid?” Harrison stands outside her trailer, leaning up against the doorframe.

 

“Yeah, I’m better.” Carrie replies, getting up from the couch.

 

“You’ll do good, you’ll be out of there in a minute.” He smiles reassuringly, but she still feels dizzy. “Come on.” He extends a helping hand to her and they walk back on set together.

 

“Carrie, you’re good to do this today? Because, if you’re not, we can do it tomorrow. Hell, we can even do it two days from now. Just making sure you’re okay to be doing this.” Irvin rants, nodding towards her.

 

“I’m good.” She states, matter-of-factly.

 

“You hear that, people? She’s good! The lady is good! Let’s get this going, shall we?” Irvin shouts to the entire working crew, the Hoth sets already waiting for them.

 

“Okay, Harrison, Carrie,” the director helps. “You’re running from Vader and the Stormtroopers. Carrie, you fall over there,” he points to a block of ice. “Harrison, you duck over her, as if you only cared about the princess’ safety. Okay, people?” everyone nods.

 

“I want a camera here!” Irvin directs. “Let’s start rolling, we don’t have the whole day!”

 

Carrie and Harrison position themselves and, as soon as the director screams ‘Action!’, they start running.

 

As a result of her dizziness, Carrie trips and falls against a fake wall. Harrison helps her up. “Sorry, sorry.” She tries to fix her hair. Martha comes rushing to her rescue. “I’m sorry, I was distracted.” Irvin smiles briefly.

 

“Okay, all good?” They do the scene again. Carrie runs, as does Harrison, and Leia falls exactly where she’s supposed to. Han uses his body to protect the princess, warmth radiating from his chest.

 

Irvin yells “Cut!” and Carrie gets up. “That was perfect, just perfect!”

 

Harrison smiles and looks over to his co-star. Her worried expression is very visible. She takes off running desperately, and he follows. He holds her hair as she throws up the rest that remained inside her body. He hands her a washcloth and she cleans her mouth.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she blurts out. “It must be the stress of all of this picture thing.” She smiles half-heartedly.

 

“No need to apologize,” he smiles back. “Let me take you back to your apartment.” He offers.

 

“Not my apartment.” Carrie pleads. “Take me to see the ocean instead.”

 

 

The sand between her toes and the unmissable smell of the ocean, those two things seem like the only right things in her life now.

 

“I want to kiss you,” Harrison says quietly. He holds on to her as the waves crash into them and her legs wrap around his torso. He’s so strong it feels effortless. “Can I?” he asks. “Kiss you?”

 

“In a second,” Carrie replies. Her teeth chatter. She presses a cold hand gently onto his chest.

 

“Might I ask what you’re waiting for?” he whispers, mockingly. “Hypothermia?”

 

They laugh through their chattering teeth. She wants to hold on to these few moments for as long as possible. Right now, they’re in-between, that wonderful state of anticipation and excitement. They’re hovering in the water, together, and she is in his arms. Nothing can touch her.

 

“We’ll never get this moment back,” she says with a small shake of her head. “If we kiss now, it’ll be the… the _after_.”

 

He has stubble on his chin. One of Harrison’s hands rests under her thigh and the other runs to the back of her head. “I never thought of it like that.” He exhales. They remain like that for one second, as he examines her mouth.

 

“Fuck it,” he hoists Carrie up and their lips meet. He opens his mouth, so she opens hers too.

 

With a turn of his head, he deepens the kiss. It’s not innocent anymore, if it ever was.

 

His lips part from hers and his eyes are kind, warm. Then, something happens, some force takes over his body, and his eyes darken. His hand travels from her neck down her chest, gripping her breast.

 

She yelps.

 

“Did I hurt you?” his eyes soften, but his expression is of worry.

 

“For some reason, yes.” She says, still confused. “I’m sore, I don’t know why.” She looks down, embarrassed.

 

“Hey,” he brings a finger to her chin and lifts her head up. “It’s fine. Let’s go home.” She kisses him again, gently. _Home_ …


	5. Chapter 5

It was a queer, sultry friday night, the night of the wrap party for The Empire Strikes Back, and Carrie and Harrison had silently agreed to keep their distance, as rumors of their involvement didn't show signs of dying down. 

 

“Carrie, so glad you could make it!” one of the producers joins her right at the entrance. 

 

“Couldn't miss it,” she smiles satisfactorily at her employer. 

 

“Great, great,” he smiles back, looking around the room. “Enjoy the party.” he says, as he walks away, distracted by this one and that. 

 

“Enjoy the party,” she huffs to herself. 

 

The last few days Carrie's been in hiding in her London apartment, not wanting to go back home to LA, to be lectured by her mother, nor to New York, to Paul. As if he'd still want her after the news broke. 

 

“Carrie!” Marilou rushes towards her. “Finally a familiar face.” She exhales. 

 

“Hey,” Carrie hugs Mark’s wife, and she squeezes back. 

 

“I lost Mark right about the time we walked in,” she laughs, though curtly. “It's fine, I found you now!” 

 

“Yeah,” Carrie smiles, though her head is still dizzy. 

 

“So, how've you been?” they sit down around a table, Marilou sipping on her wine. “Mark mentioned you've been sick lately.”

 

“He did?” She mentally kicks Mark. “I guess I've been. I'm feeling good today, though.” another smile, a smaller, edgier one, forms on her lips. 

 

“Hum,” Marilou ponders. “Alright.” 

 

“How are you? How is little Nathan?” Carrie turns her body towards Marilou’s, crossing her legs. 

 

“He’s good, won't stop screaming and crying, but I think that’s normal.” She replies. “I must find Mark so he can show you some pictures!” She promptly gets up to find her husband, leaving Carrie to herself. 

 

Not long after that, a voice echoes behind her: 

 

“Hey, kid.” it’s deep, raspy and slightly demanding. It's Harrison. 

 

“Harrison,” her tone is monochromic.

 

“What happened to “Hello, lover”?” He teases, but there's no hint of smile or playfulness in his voice. 

 

“Take a seat, lover,” she obliges. “Better?” She raises one eyebrow.

 

“Nah, I don't want to sit down.” He shoots back. “They're playing our song, care to dance?” He cocks one eyebrow at her, but doesn't offer his hand. 

 

“Save it,” she waves him away. “We don't even have a song,” she looks at him straight in the eye and listens closely. “Unless you and I have slow danced to “Take me On” before without my knowing.” 

 

He grins. 

 

“We'll wait for the next one, kid.” he promises. “I have the whole night.” 

 

“Well, I don't. If you'll excuse me,” she gets up to leave, but his hand on her arm stops her. 

 

“Carrie, I know you're hiding something.” His breath is hot against her ear. “Be a good girl and tell me.” he’s still gripping her arm, and she inhales shakily.  _ How does he know? _

 

“Well, hotshot, I have positively no idea what you're talking about.” She frees herself and puts her hands on her hips. “Please, let me go.” her tone is strong and assertive. 

 

“Please, you dug yourself a hole and haven't come out in days. And I know you can't resist me for more than thirty two hours, we've tried that before.” it could sound like he's teasing her, making her deliberately uncomfortable, but his voice is very much matter-of-factly. 

 

“Arrogant much, Mr. Ford?” She can't seem to get out of this one. 

 

“Carrie…” he mumbles, pulling out a cigarette. He lights it in one swift motion. 

 

“Don't smoke that around me, Harrison,” 

 

“What's gotten into you?” He asks, frustrated. “Usually, you steal it from me in a second.” 

 

“Yeah well, maybe I grew up a little.” It stings.

 

He looks at her worryingly for a second before laughing: “You almost got me there, sweetheart.” 

 

Two second of excruciating silence fall between them. 

 

“So, where's Paul?” he asks. There it is,  _ jealousy.  _

 

“He’s working in New York,” she answers, suddenly feeling embarrassed. 

 

“Pity,”

 

“Jesus Christ,” she’s exasperated. “Will you leave me alone if we dance?” She runs a finger along his jawline, the stubble scratching her skin. 

 

“Can't charm your way out of this one, dear.” But he takes her up on her offer nonetheless.

 

His big hand steadies her, pressing against her waist. Her cheek lays against his chest, her hands running up and down her back.

 

“Don't,” he warns. 

 

“Harrison,” she calls. He separates their bodies and looks down at her. “Harrison, we should've never gone.” Her voice shows her panic.

 

“We shouldn't have gone where, dear?” He furrows his brow, confused but satisfied at the same time. 

 

“Barcelona. Harrison, we should've never gone to Barcelona.” 

  
  
  


“What’s our number?” Carrie fidgets from one foot to another. 

 

“Twenty seven.” he answers. “Just sit down or something. Rest.” Harrison motions to a black, leather couch. Intimidating, to say the least. 

 

“Alright,” she sits down, but keeps her eyes on him. 

 

“Look, I gotta return a call,” he says. “Mary called,” he continues. “Maybe something happened with the kid-,” and he stops right there. Sore spot. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” she manages a smile and watches him walk away. 

 

Meanwhile, she clutches the paper tightly and fixes her gaze on the white wall in front of her, almost as she’s looking through it. Carrie can almost see the woman lying in that hospital bed, a white, paper-thin robe covering her. She could feel the excruciating pain she must be feeling (Carrie had never met anyone that’d gone through the procedure, but she imagined it hurt) and the sudden regret. The feeling of coming home knowing who you were the day before resembles nothing of who you are now. Or maybe she’d feel relieved. The woman might feel relieved, not having the burden of raising a child in a home that never quite  _ was _ . 

 

But what if it had been a boy? Would he have had his brown hair, his hazel eyes, or would he have had her fiery personality? Would his father have taught him how to build a wooden table for his mother, or would she have been late to work for picking him up from football practice?

 

Carrie pushes those thoughts aside as she rummages inside her purse, looking for her lipgloss. She applies it carefully, not taking her eyes from the small, compact mirror. As she finishes, her gaze averts to across the room. A lone woman, much like Carrie herself, smiles reassuringly towards her. Carrie observes her barely noticeable bump and her mind spirals again. 

 

Was it a girl? If it was, was there the slight possibility of her inheriting her father’s family’s blue eyes? Or her mother’s chestnut hair? Hopefully, she’d have the sensible qualities of her dad, with a sprinkle of her mom’s craziness. After all, a little craziness never hurt anybody. 

 

Of course all this back and forth was pointless, she knew it was a girl. He didn’t know though, she kept that secret for herself. She’d have that. 

 

But she didn’t want  _ just _ that, it occurred to her. She actually wanted all of it, the hard parts, that staying up late and vomit everywhere, and the easy parts, watching her take her first steps and speaking her first words. 

 

“Harrison,” Carrie got up and rushed to him as he entered the waiting room. 

 

“We have to talk,” he says. “I changed my mind.” his face is flushed and his heart is racing. 

 

“What?” she furrows her brow. 

 

“I was talking to Mary and the kids and well,” he takes the two remaining strides that separate them. “I changed my mind.” he smiles and shrugs. 

 

“Thank God,” she throws her arms around him and he, though startled, holds on to Carrie. “I changed my mind too,” she whispers. “Oh, also,” she tells him. “It’s definitely a girl.” He smiles into her hair. 

 

After they part, their eyes search each other’s, looking for the next logical step. Then, a  _ ding _ sound erupts from above them:  _ number 27. _

 

“Fuck that,” he says. “Let’s go home.”  _ Yes, home… _

  
  
  


Four months later, Harrison and Carrie meet up at the hotel booked for the press interviews in New York. When he sees her for the first time in a while, it takes nearly everything in him not to run and crush her body to his. 

 

They kiss. It’s a slow, lingering kiss, very different from the kisses they shared under the Barcelona sky. Those had been rough, demanding, but impersonal. These felt like a beginning more than anything else, a sweet, honey-covered, shiny beginning. 

 

“How’s little Rose doing?” Harrison caresses Carrie’s stomach through the smooth fabric of her clothes. 

 

“Better now that you’re here,” she pecks him on the lips.

 

“For a writer, that one was pretty weak, kid.” he teases, but returns the kiss. 

 

“Pregnancy brain,” she laughs, and he pretends to accept her excuse. 

 

“We should go, Mark’s waiting for us at the restaurant.” he grips her hand and they slide inside a cab. 

 

She lets her head fall against his shoulder in a carefree manner she’d never tried before. He adjusts himself on his seat, but this time it’s not to distance himself, it’s to make her feel more comfortable. 

 

Then, out of nowhere, Harrison asks: “Do you think we should get married?” 

 

“What?” shock coats her voice. 

 

“I mean, shouldn’t we?” he asks again. “It makes sense, with us having a baby and all.” his hand grips her arm softly. 

 

“I guess…” she ponders it. “I don’t us to marry just because we’re having a baby though.”

 

“If you don’t want to get married, we don’t have to.” he offers her a smile. 

 

“It’s not that I don’t want to get married,” she raises her head and faces Harrison. “I just want you to get married to me because  _ you  _ want to.” 

 

“Hell, kid,” he huffs. 

 

“I’ve seen enough failed marriages to last me seven lifetimes.” she tries to ease the tension. 

 

“Hum,” he guides her back into his embrace, resting his head on hers. “Why do you think those marriages ended?” he asks. 

 

Carrie has to be careful of what she says: “Well,” she starts, tentatively. “Most of them ended in cheating.” she awaits his reaction. 

 

“Right,” he exhales. 

 

“Hey, baby,” she places a warm hand on his face. “I don’t mind if we don’t get marrie-”

 

“What if we promise?” he interrupts her. “What if we promise right now to never cheat?”

 

“That’s kind of like saying our vows, huh Harrison?” she jokes. 

 

“Alright, then,” he faces her and takes her hand in his: “Carrie,” he clears his throat exaggeratedly. “I promise to never love any other woman other than, well, you-” he laughs, nervous. “I promise to give everything to little Rose and any other children we may have,” she raises her eyebrows. “And I promise to take care of you,” his words are muffled as she kisses him. “Forever.” his words never do sound outside their lips. Her hand grips his hair and his hand cradles her flaming cheek.

 

“I promise all of that to you too, baby,” she laughs into his ear.

 

“That’s easy for you to keep, you don’t like women,” she takes a second to understand his poorly-thought-out joke. 

 

“Alright, I promise to never love another  _ man _ other than you,” 

 

“That’s better.” he smiles and she throws herself on top of him. 

 

“Did we just get married?” she whispers, incredulous.

 

“I think we did, kid,” he laughs. “Hell, we just got married!” 


	6. The Epilogue

The most beautiful part of the ceremony was when they shared their “I do’s”. Truly, the way that her face glowed and his eyes sparkled with stray tears. It felt almost invasive to watch her little girl sharing her first kiss as a married woman.

 

Children danced around them, laughing in absolute happiness. Twinkly lights enveloped them while the guitar played the first song they’d ever danced to, every strum feeling like the very first time. The autumn leaves falling down around them, each one its own fingerprint of oranges, yellows and browns. The brand-new breath of life onto the lifeless, that’s how it felt. Their closest friends and family gathering for no reason other than to celebrate their love in its sum.

 

“Grandma, come see my drawing!” four-year-old Hunter says, tugging at Carrie’s skirt.

 

“Alright, let’s see that work of art,” she answers, being led to the little kids’ table.

 

“Guess mine!” he asks, pointing at the plethora of drawings displayed on the table. Carrie looks at them and soon realizes she couldn’t tell them apart at all. How is she supposed to know which one is Hunter’s? “Grandma!” he’s getting impatient.

 

“Okay mister, but first I have to look at all of them,” she says. She picks the first one up, but there’s no reaction from the little boy. She continues on to the next one, and then the one after that. Then, something amazing happens: his whole body lights up and stifled laughter escapes him mouth, that mouth that is so like Rose’s, so like Carrie’s.

 

“It’s this one!” Carrie exclaims.

 

“How’d you know, grandma?” he asks.

 

“Baby, that’s obviously mommy and daddy and…” she turns it around slightly. “And your grandad and I?” she laughs at the awkward height difference. The boy smiles, satisfied.

 

Behind them, the clinking of glasses erupts.

 

“If I could have everybody’s attention, please,” Mark shouts. He then gets up and starts:

 

“Dear Rosie, you make such a beautiful bride,” people nod in agreement. “And I think I speak for everyone when I say that you two are absolutely perfect for each other.” Coby rests his hand on Rose’s waist and they share a knowing smile. “But before you two kids were the perfect couple, we had your parents to look up to.”

 

Carrie’s body stiffens. She looks for Harrison in the crown of people in attendance. Right by the cake, there he is. He looks at her too.

 

“Though everyone tells the story about the two movie stars who fell in love on the set of their movie,” Mark continues. “We who are present here today know that there’s more to it than just that.” Now, Mark looks at Carrie and smiles. She looks at him through her half-hearted smile and asks _Where are you going with this?_

 

Harrison starts walking towards Carrie, taking long strides in her direction.

 

“The truth is, dear Rosie,” his expression softens. “Is that we wouldn’t have their love to look up to if it weren’t for you.”

 

Harrison grabs Carrie’s hand and she forces a smile. He comes closer, she can smell his unmistakable scent.

 

“You were what made them whole.” Mark finishes. “To Carrie and Harrison.” And everyone chants back:

 

“To Carrie and Harrison.” And champagne drowns in their bodies.

 

Harrison’s grip tightens around her fingers. She looks up at him:

 

“What?”

 

“I need to talk to you.” His face is tired, shaped by the years.

 

“Can’t it wait?” she smiles to the guests that breeze past them, but mumbles to him.

 

“No, I need to talk to you now.” She goes with him, his tone much too tight too ignore.

 

They walk down the pathway to the lake, right in front of the family’s summer house, where Rose had begged to get married in ever since she was old enough to think about marriage.

 

“Look, I know you’re unhappy.” Harrison starts. _That_ shocks her. “And I don’t like that.” They sit down beside each other on the grass. He helps her down. “I don’t like that one bit.”

 

She looks at him incredulous. She was so good at acting, though.

 

“Kid, this ain’t easy for me either,” his voice falters. “Hell, it’s never been easy with you.”

 

“Thanks a lot, Harriso-“ he cuts her off.

 

“Will you just listen? Just listen for a second.” He gestures with his hands. She nods.

 

“I know that we’re two people that live inside our changing minds,” he looks to the water. “And most of the time we only know to touch and go. And that makes you unhappy,” he whispers.

 

“I tried to be the best I could for you, but this is all I got, kid.” He says. She exhales for a few moments, she was not expecting this on her daughter’s wedding day.

 

“Is that what you wanted to say?” she raises her head and stares at him intensely.

 

“Well, hold on a minute,” he’s frustrated now, she can tell. “We always fall in love till it hurts and bleeds,” he gets closer to her face. “And you were never a saint, either.” _And you loved in shades of wrong._

 

“But when I’m around you, Carrie, my armor falls,” his gaze is forceful. “You’re like a cannonball, every time you enter a room.”

 

“I want to do this right, because I know that what you and I have, kid,” his hand travels to her cheek. “It’s worth fighting for.”

 

His hand falls at her expression. He then withdraws something for his pocket.

 

“Let’s play good and right with each other from now on.”

 

He opens the small velvet box. A diamond ring sparkles inside of it, so alone and cold.

 

His hand brushes hers and she can’t possibly move.

 

“Carrie,” she looks at her then bare ring finger, now crowded with flicks of light. “What do ya say?”

 

But there’s only one thing she wants to know.

 

“Why is it pink?” she asks. He smiles, an excited smile, and brings his lips to hers. They brush at first, but then his lips taste hers and it feels just like it always has: brave and wild.

 

“Sweetheart,” her head falls on his shoulder. He looks into her chestnut eyes, the beginning of a golden age. “It’s not pink,” A state of grace, if you will. “It’s rose.”


End file.
